Chapter Text
“Even?”
Even lifts his head, lets his lips slip away from the part of Isak’s chest he has been kissing carefully. Isak’s skin is warm against his lips, and it’s almost as if Isak is vibrating under him.
“What?”
Fingers comb through his hair, but a small wrinkle has appeared between Isak's eyebrows.
“Are we really doing this now ?
“You don’t want to?”
Even strokes his leg, and Isak rolls his eyes when his hand continues upwards; when he lets his fingers sneak in under the hem of Isak's boxers, touching the soft skin of his groin before moving back down towards the knee.
Back to one of Isak’s most sensitive spots.
“If Alma’s not asleep by now, something’s up.”
“I know, but – ”
Isak sighs, letting his head fall back onto the pillow. Even searches his face for a bit, then rolls off of him. The mattress takes on the shape of his back, and he stretches out his arm next to his head.
Isak mirrors him, then draws up one of his knees to create a pyramid under the duvet. When he looks up, there are many horizontal lines on his forehead, his dark eyebrows drawn together, all doglike. “It has nothing to do with you.”
Even chuckles. “I know. And the more I think about it, the more guilty I feel. I mean, what if she heard us?”
“Good that we’re on the same page.” Isak presses a quick kiss under his chin. “Would you get up and let Navi in?”
Even lets out a deep, theatrical sigh.
Isak just grins as he turns to lie on his stomach, hugging the pillow. “Thanks.”
“Hey. You can do better.”
“I love you. You are the most wonderful, incredible, fantastic – ”
“Fine, fine. Don’t exert yourself, or you’ll explode.” Even says, a smile threatening to spread over his face. Reluctantly, he crawls out from under the warm duvet and grabs a pair of sweatpants because the floor is so damn cold. They’re in that indistinct transition period between winter and spring, where it’s neither cold nor warm long enough for the heater to acclimate to the changes.
Usually, Navi lies, curled up and waiting, in front of their bedroom door when she’s been kicked out, ready to run inside and plonk herself down between their feet at the foot of their bed.
Now, she’s nowhere to be found.
Even leans back into the bedroom, grabbing a wool sweater off the hook behind the door. Cold weather tends to make his shoulder ache, and Navi might’ve wandered off into the kitchen or even the basement. She is intelligent enough to occasionally turn from calm and collected into quite the drama queen. Something as insignificant as how the light falls in the kitchen can fascinate her to the point where she turns into a nervous wreck.
When he steps out of the bedroom, the floorboards next to the door creak. The house is not the biggest ( – a small townhouse they managed to move to after one of Isak’s colleagues and her husband decided to move to an apartment in the city – ) but it’s enough. Outside, the motion detector on the little patio turns on as he steps into the living room which is, unfortunately, dogless.
The door to the old office is slightly ajar, but Even refrains from looking inside. It’s best to just let her be. Talk it out tomorrow. Earlier in the evening, she’d taken out a lot of her corrosive, pent-up frustration on Isak. Had spat out some nasty words, saying that Isak, who had such a good job, shouldn’t give a fuck about how she was doing at school, because he obviously just thought she was a lost cause anyways.
It was, however, far from the first time she’d gone for Isak with a vengeance, and it always hurts to witness it ( – like it is somehow his fault – ).
Walking down the stairs, he heads towards the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water, since he’s already up. And that’s when he spots Navi. She’s slowly pacing in front of the door to the little bathroom which has a bathtub but no shower, her tail nervously wagging to and fro, paws blocking part of the light escaping from under the door.
Even leans down, petting the big dog along her side. “There you are. What’s wrong, girl?”
Navi whines and shakes him off, only to continue her nervous pacing. Something in the way she moves, combined with the eerie silence from inside the bathroom causes a cold feeling to settle in his stomach ( – anchored inside him like a stone in his midriff – )
“Alma?”
No answer. His heart starts to beat faster, the rate becoming painful. Without thinking, he grabs the door handle. It’s locked.
Drawing a careful breath, he knocks on the door. “Alma? Everything alright in there?”
“Fucking hell, Even. What do you want?” she spits, voice thick and almost panicked.
His stomach drops. “Nothing, I just – ”
“Fuck off, then!”
“Alma – ”
“For fuck’s sake, stop saying my name! Just go away and leave me the fuck alone!”
Blood rushes in his ears, his fingertips tingle. Her anger is familiar, but it comes a beat too late. Makes a part of him want to do as she says. Makes him want to listen to her, take her seriously and respect her wishes. At the same time, something flickers in the back of his mind ( – alarm bells start going off, one after the other, her laboured breathing the time the light Navi something is off off off – ) .
Her mind doesn’t work like his, or Isak’s. If anything, she reminds him of Sana, all rough edges and high walls. “If you unlock the door, I promise I’ll go back to bed. I just need to make sure you don’t faint in there, okay?”
Silence settles again. Navi’s claws click against the hardwood floor. The radiator in the hallway snaps. Alma’s breathing is audible through the door.
Then, the lock turns and the handle is pushed down. The door creaks open; the harsh 60-watt light floods the hallway like a spotlight ( – his pupils constrict so fast that it hurts, then, the scene before him clears – ) and everything stops.
Alma sits on the toilet seat, wearing nothing but underwear and a baggy t-shirt; her messy dark hair pulled back with a pink hair tie, holding her hand at the top of her thigh, almost touching her hip bone.
And between her fingers, dark red blood wells up. It runs in little rivulets down her legs, which are littered with deep, finger-long gashes ( – it is full of white and pinkish-red marks, there are scars on her thighs, all over, ridged and awful this is not the first time this is not the first time this is not the first time how long has this been going on for – )
In her other hand, there is a yellow-handled box cutter.
“It’s –” She stutters and swallows. “It’s – I think I’ve cut too deep. It’s not stopping. I – I can’t make it stop,” she says, never looking up at him.
A rivulet reaches her knobby knee, and one drop falls onto the tiles with a quiet plop .
The sound is deafening, but it manages to break the spell; the floodgates open and the adrenaline courses through him. Without thinking, Even steps into the bathroom, pulling a few small towels from the cupboard next to the washing machine.
“Do you need to go to the emergency room?”
It’s a miracle that his voice doesn’t break, as brittle as it is.
She vehemently shakes her head ( – her brown eyes big bloodshot terrified – ) “No, no, it’s fine, I’m sorry – ”
Navi whines in the hallway, and Even closes the door to make sure she doesn’t disturb them. Sinking down to his knees ( – down on the blood spattered tiles his pants are definitely going to have stains on them – ) in front of Alma, he presses the towel on top of her hand.
Her whole body is shaking, and its vibrations travel up through his palm. It’s contagious.
“Let go, honey.”
“No.” She shakes her head again, still not looking him in the eye. “I can’t.”
“Relax, let go now. I’ll keep pressing down, I’ve got you.”
Something passes through her. She swallows, and then takes away her blood-stained hand. His vision disappears for a moment, but he gathers himself and presses his whole hand onto the towel ( – his hand is so large, hers so fragile – ) .
Nothing is leaking through the white fabric. That is reassuring, at least.
With his other hand, he gently pries the box cutter from her grasp. The yellow handle is a little deformed; it’s bumpy, as if the plastic has been half-melted several times ( – as if she boiled it, sterilized it – ) . It makes it hard to retract the blade, but it still works.
Alma has closed her eyes, and is leaning her head against the tiled wall behind her. Behind her eyelids, her eyes move back and forth, as if she’s unable to keep any part of her body still.
Even’s jaw begins to spasm; the muscles threaten to make his teeth chatter. “Would you let me call for Isak?”
Alma’s face crumbles. Her lips quiver, tears welling up but never quite slipping out. “No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want him to see me like this,” she whispers, and sniffles. “He hates me.”
It makes his head spin ( – how did they fuck up so badly – ) but he manages to breathe through it. “Isak doesn’t hate you.”
“No, he does.”
It’s not something he can convince her of, and it hurts ( – claws at his heart and lungs in a way he hasn’t felt in forever – ).
“Why would you think that Isak hates you?”
“I’m not completely fucked in the head, you know.”
Even winces.
“He just wants to help you. Me too. And, it’s a bit harsh to say, but he’ll just know better what to do. He’s not a doctor, but he knows more about the human body. I just work in film, you know.”
It slips out before he knows it, but it does coax a quick smile out of her. Not a big one, and part of him really doesn’t want to downplay the situation. At the same time, it’s almost unbearable to see her this way ( – a distorted reflection of himself, a road he could have taken – ).
“Isak – he can judge if you have to go to the emergency room, or if we can patch you up here, okay?”
She nods. Her fingers twitch ( – flight instinct about to take over he knows this all too well he can’t be alone with her for much longer – ) so he has to be sure that this is what she wants.
“It’s okay if I ask him to come down here?”
She nods again.
Even opens the bathroom door with his left hand and sticks his head out. “Isak!”, he shouts, and tries to keep his voice steady, as well as in the right pitch ( – words make it real, not just a figment of his imagination – ) . Tv-static is still running through his veins, even though it’s gone from nearly boiling over to a slight simmering.
“What is it? Come back to bed, Navi’s back now.”
“Get the first aid kit and come to the downstairs bathroom!”
Through the ceiling, they hear how Isak tumbles out of bed and throws on some clothes. Running footsteps pound down the staircase and as soon as he hears Isak fumble around in the cleaning cabinet, Even looks up at Alma.
Her face is drained of all color, and her knees have started shaking again. Some of the cuts on her other thigh have stopped bleeding, so Even puts his hand just beneath them. “It’s okay. We’re just going to patch you up. Nothing else.”
He locks the door the moment he hears Isak outside. The handle rattles once, before Isak’s voice drifts over from the other side.
“Why’d you lock it? Even – !”
Isak’s voice is all panic, and even through the door, his laboured breathing is audible.
Even swallows. “Where is Navi?”
“Why – in the bedroom, I just told you. She seemed restless.”
“Okay. Good.”
“Even.” Isak’s voice is treacherously calm now. “What’s going on?”
“It’s not me,” Even says, and in the corner of his eye, Alma closes her own. Her mouth is trembling, despite the fact that she’s pressing her lips together. Under his palm, her leg’s sticky with cold sweat and blood that has started leaking through the towel ( – the overpowering stench of fear permeates the air he doesn’t know if he can stay calm much longer – ) . “But Isak, you have to stay calm.”
On the other side of the door, Isak takes a deep breath. “Okay. Let me in, please?
Alma is crying now; silent tears are running down her cheeks and Even would like to do nothing more than hold her ( – there’s so much of himself in her that it’s painful to be here – )
“Can I let him in?” he asks softly.
She is silent again ( – just shakes and shakes and shakes – ). Then she nods.
Even lets go of her knee and unlocks the door.
Isak opens it at once. And stops in his tracks. “Oh. Alma – ”
Alma sucks in a sharp breath through her nose. She brings her hands up to hide her face behind them and tries, in vain, to stifle the pained noise ripping itself from her throat.
Even manages to tear his eyes away from her; Isak’s face is as ashen as hers.
And Even is positive that there’s no blood left in his own either.
“Look. It’s bled through.” Isak sounds hollow, and entirely detached ( – has slipped into problem solving mode and donned his pragmatist attitude, which protect him like armor – ) when he, too, drops to his knees, first aid kit in hand. “We have to get her down on the floor. Keep the wound elevated.”
Even swallows, and sits up straighter, the tiles digging into his knees. “Okay.”
Alma’s crying isn’t as hysteric anymore, and now she’s just sitting there, motionless. All silent, shoulders drawn up to her ears. He strokes her hair, then shakes her shoulder with a light hand. “Alma, would you get down and sit on the floor with me?”
She shakes her head.
“Just lift her,” Isak orders, and he seems so cold as he rummages through the bag for the compresses and the surgical tape. “It might stop on its own if we get her down on the floor.”
Even carefully gets up, keeping his hand steady on the towel. He squeezes Alma’s shoulder before he puts the other hand under her arm. “Up. Come on, girl. Work with me here.”
Hands still covering her face, she does go along with the upward motion ( – like a ragdoll – ) and then downward, down onto the tiled floor, the whole time keeping her leg up. The previous owners installed underfloor heating right before they moved in, and Even has never been more grateful for it as he leans against the bathtub; Alma lies limp across his lap, hands still in place.
Her right hand is sticky with ( – her own – ) blood.
Over the top of her head, Even looks up at Isak, who has finally found the right supplies. The fluorescent light is unforgiving, and turns the bloodstains on the tiles all black and grotesque.
“Alma.” Isak scoots closer and puts a hand on her ankle. A shiver runs through her, and Even wonders if Isak’s hand is warm or cold. “I’ll take the towel away now, just so you know.”
She only draws a sharp breath in response. It makes her whole chest tremble. Isak gives Even a dejected look ( – bottomless empty hollow – ) before he peels the towel off. The inside of it is dark red, but the cuts aren’t bleeding anymore; a thin layer of coagulum has formed in the deepest one.
Even clears his throat and runs his hands down her bare arms. “Did something happen?” he asks, almost in a whisper.
Alma is silent, except for the small, involuntary whimpers when Isak cleans the edges of the wound. “I don’t know,” she mumbles, muffled by the fingers covering her mouth, as Isak presses the sides of the wound together with tape.
Even runs his hand over her forehead, his palm turning moist from her cold sweat. “Okay. Do you know why you’ve done it before?”
She remains silent, and Even can’t help it. He should remain neutral like Isak, but it’s all too familiar ( – reminds him all too much of how he felt while in that bottomless pit of confusion angst fear self-hate so deep the light has no chance of breaking through, like being at the bottom of the Mariana trench – ) to be able to ignore it.
So he puts one arm around her, presses his cheek to her hair, and softly cradles her when she starts to shake again.
“It’s just – it’s always too much,” she whispers ( – one hand clutching his forearm like a lifeline – ) . “It – I can’t. Drinking is the only thing that helps. I can’t deal with it, but I have to get it out – I can’t take it anymore!”
It rips out of her with an awful sound ( – followed by tears, snot and spit – ).
“Does it happen a lot?” Isak continues, as if he hasn’t heard her. But something around his mouth has tightened, and Even just knows what is swirling around in his head now.
Alma takes away her hands from her face. “What? That happens to fucking everyone, doesn’t it?”
Her voice is biting, and Even braces himself for the impact.
“No,” Isak answers matter-of-factly. “Most people don’t feel the need to hurt themselves to handle their emotions.”
“That’s easy for you to say. Why do you care? You just think I’m fucked in the head!”
Isak goes still, the compress loosely dangling between his fingers. Even watches as blind rage passes over Isak’s face for a split second, before his eyes water suddenly. He swallows, and continues dressing the wound; his movements even more gentle and careful.
“I don’t think you’re fucked in the head, Alma.”
She goes rigid. Her ribs rise and fall under Even’s arm.
“Yeah, right. Do you really think I don’t know why I’m here? Because it makes you two look good ,” she spits, and starts wriggling out of Even’s hold. “It gives you charity points or some other bullshit! Model fucking citizens!”
Out of sheer instinct, Even tightens his grip, but before he has time to to let go, she goes limp. Covers her face with her hands again, and sob after sob escapes her. “I can’t do anything right, can I,” she whispers ( – deflates like all air has been let out of her – ) . “S-Sorry. There always something wrong with me.”
Isak’s fingers smooth down the edges of the compress, and he starts to wrap gauze around her thigh. Somehow, it doesn’t look as fragile as it did under Even’s own hand; the strength in her muscles becomes clear now that the wound and the scars disappear, bit by bit, under a protective layer of bandaging.
“No one gets everything right on the first try,” Even says after a bit, and tilts her head back until her eyes finally meet his. Her chest rises and falls at a rapid pace ( – filled with such quantities in need of an outlet just not like this never like this even though he knows what it’s like – ) . “But we’re not doing this for appearance’s sake, Alma. Believe me.”
She picks at the bandage like she wants to pull it off again. Isak takes her hand instead, squeezes it carefully, and she squeezes his back. She closes her eyes, and her thigh makes a comical sound as it hit the tiles. Thuds against them in a way that breaks the silence.
It’s more out of habit that Even starts stroking her hair again.
“You’re okay?” he asks softly, and Alma loses the last of her remaining rigidity.
The fluorescent light bulb above the bathroom cabinet flickers. Alma nods and leans her head against his shoulder. “Are you going to call my dad now?”
Even has to take a deep breath, and catches Isak’s tired eyes.
“I think we have to. This is one of those things we have to tell him, Alma.”
She nods, and draws a shaky breath. “He’s going to be furious,” she whispers. “I don’t think I can – ”
“He’s free to take his rage out on me,” Isak says, before Even has time to open his mouth. “Because, believe me, I’m pretty used to that by now.”
He smiles that self-deprecating smile of his, which transforms his face, makes it softer and lets the beauty shine through. Alma exhales with a snort, but swallows it down on a sniffle. “Yeah. Gotcha. Sorry, Isak.”
“It’s alright, Alma.”
Even notices that she is still holding on to Isaks fingers; they’re almost turned white by her grasp. But Isak doesn’t let go. And Even hugs her closer; this sixteen-year-old on his lap who seems so much younger right here and now.
After a long pause, she sighs. “I just wanna go back to sleep.”
Even loosens his grip, and says what has to be said in situations like this. “On one condition: you promise me that we’ll discuss this again tomorrow. Because this can’t continue, honey. You get that too, don’t you? Even though it’s hard.”
“Okay.” She sighs, but nods. “Yeah. Fine. I promise. I just want to sleep.”
“Good.” Isak uses the radiator to pull himself up and offers her his hand. “Are you able to walk on your own?”
She shakes her head, and Isak sends Even a short look. “I’ll carry you, then. Even, could you help her up?”
Even pulls her up along with him, and after she puts her arms around Isak’s shoulders, he scoops her up, bridal style ( – careful not to touch her cut-up legs – ) . She’s a small person: fifty kilos dry, with a mane of long, dark hair. If it hadn’t been for his protesting shoulder, Even could have done it just as easily. Now, he leads the way, opening doors to make sure Isak doesn’t drop her.
While Isak puts her back into bed, Even fetches a few extra blankets from the living room. Something tells him she’ll need them now ( – an extra layer against the world, a cocoon where she can gather her strength before this circus really begins – )
When he gets back, she’s already asleep.
“I think she fell asleep on the way up,” Isak says as Even covers her with the blankets. Isak chews at the hangnail on his thumb as he starts closing the door to her room, before changing his mind and leaving it ajar.
“Doesn’t surprise me.”
They head downstairs again in silence, back to the bathroom. Isak gathers the roll of gauze and the compresses discarded on the tiles, while Even takes out the Ajax from the cupboard under the sink to remove the last blood stains ( – as if it’s cleaning day and time to remove the calcification between the tiles – ).
It’s fucked up.
The light flickers again when he gets off of the floor. It needs changing, and soon if it doesn't let up. He rinses out the towel in the sink ( – until the pink stream becomes clear – ) and hears Isak zip up the first-aid-kit.
“Did you ever think about it?”
“If there were any signs, you mean?”
He meets Isak’s eyes in the bathroom mirror. They’re hollow ( – an abyss you stand at the edge of to scream until your lungs give out – ) and the skin under his eyes is dry and paper thin.
Isak shakes his head. “No, I meant you. At her age.”
“Why’d you think that?”
“I don’t know. You got to her in a way that – ”
Isak stops; bites his cheek as if to keep certain thoughts from crystallizing. It doesn’t startle Even when Isak spins him around, strong hands on his hips and pulls him into a hug.
He could try explaining it. Because Isak, if anything, wants to understand. It’s just that in situations like these, their differences become so starkly visible. Isak isn’t an emotionally fragile person, and his way of dealing with things like these is to polish and polish until that protective armor of his shines through. Something extra is needed for him to truly understand how physical pain, in so many ways, is easier to endure than ( – this abstract corrosive inescapable pressure building up inside – ) psychological. By now, he knows how Even works, but even when it was tempting, there, in the beginning ( – when this inability to escape became too much, but had yet to make him want to – ) , Even never tried to ease it by –
He wants nothing more than to sink into Isak’s arms ( – lean into him at just the right angle so all of it seeps out of him, onto the tiles – ) but instead he runs his hands up and down Isak’s arms.
“A few times, it seemed like an option.”
He’d considered it mostly out of curiosity, heard about it, wanted to see if it could work. If it would become that unmatched vent they said it would; transforming psychological into physical ( – imaginary into real – ) pain that was said to, perhaps, make it all run out.
Bloodletting, but for modern times.
It never happened.
“But I couldn’t do it. You know how afraid I am of hurting myself. Like, just a paper cut makes me freak out.”
Isak’s sharp inhale echoes through the bathroom; his exhale is relieved. The lighting in here really is too harsh. It’s like a spotlight, illuminating a performance no one wants to see – like that Finnish artist who chopped his own arm off with a chainsaw, microwaved it and exhibited it as a sculpture; a performance no one actually wants to witness, well-lit or not.
So Even closes his eyes. Shuts it out. Concentrates on Isak’s chest; how it rises and falls with the rhythm of his breathing, moves steadily against his own, how his hair smells of shampoo and sweat and tickles his cheek ( – so different from red iron cleaning product plastic packaging around the razor blades at his parents’ house – ).
“Where do we go from here? She’s got her own knife, Even.”
Isak’s voice cuts off as soon as the reality of what he’s seen catches up with him.
“We’ll see what she wants to do in the morning. But this – “
“Should we have gone to the emergency room?
“Did we need to go?”
It makes Isak shake his head; Even feels, rather than sees, the movement against his shoulder. “No, it looked worse than it actually was – physically, that is. Fucking hell,” he says, voice thick. A shiver runs through him, and Isak pulls Even closer to comfort himself.
“I think it’s dangerous to give it too much attention. The injury, that is.”
“Okay,” Isak mumbles, and follows the motion when Even takes his face into his hands. Closes his bloodshot eyes when Even runs his thumbs over his cheekbones, his temples ( – touches that which is tangible, the outline of bones just beneath the skin – ) and further down, towards his throat.
His middle finger brushes over a small cut on Isak’s chin, caused by shaving, and Isak gently closes his hands around Even’s wrists.
“And how are you doing?”
Everything blurs together, their outlines disappear, but a long breath ( – in through the nose, out through the mouth – ) makes the circles clouding his vision, reminiscent of those that appear when you’ve rubbed your eyes too hard, stop turning. The tiles are white again. Sterile. It’s been a long time since he felt this off-kilter.
Because there is a difference in knowing that the thing that rears its ugly head when he’s at his lowest hurts him, that it gnaws away at what he and Isak have if he doesn’t fight it – and dealing with this right here.
To be on the other side of it, and see it with his own eyes; to be powerless, unable to intervene in a way that matters, only able to treat the radiation burns after the meltdown is over and done.
“Is this – is this what it’s like? This utter helplessness?” he manages to get out, voice small but deafening at the same time.
“No. It used to be, a little bit. But not anymore.” Isak’s thumbs caress the veins ( – right where the skin is still warm and smooth – ) on the inside of his wrists. He swallows, and nudges the tip of his nose against Even’s ( – exhale damp warm alive against his lips – ) . “I trust you to do whatever’s best for you, for us. You want to take care of yourself. I don’t trust her to do the same.”
“No. We really can’t.”
For a moment, none of them move. Not until the edge of the sink cutting into his lower back goes from uncomfortable to painful. The fluorescent light flickers again, and in an instant, Even’s overwhelmed by a tiredness that slowly seeps out from his bones.
It spreads through his veins, and he stifles a yawn against Isak’s temple.
Isak presses a light kiss to his throat. “Come on,” he says, and interlocks their fingers. Switches off the flickering light. Leads him up the stairs and pulls him down on the bed ( – down under the blankets into their warmth – ) . They don’t even bother to take off their clothes; they just lie down next to each other.
Navi’s gone back to sleep, all curled up at their feet, so Isak moves one leg on top of Even’s to avoid knocking into her. Little shivers run through his body, and Even tries to get their heartbeats to match up; to create a state in which Isak can relax again ( – like he was before all this, calm and warm and smiling – ) so he can get some sleep.
Once their breaths are synchronized, he remembers something. Swallows, and asks:
“Isak?”
Isak lifts his head from the pillow. Through the dark, it’s possible to distinguish his cheek when he moves, but not the rest of his face.
“Yeah?”
“Should we leave the door open? In case she – ”
There’s no need to end the sentence before Isak’s already out of bed again. Silently, he reaches the door and opens until it’s slightly ajar ( – just enough to let the light from the living room get in – ) . Then, with two steps, he’s back and lies down in the same way as before; makes it easier, somehow, to fall asleep again.
And the door to the bedroom stays open.